Never A Dull Moment
by Ieyre
Summary: The day before they'd sent a media mogul packing and the Home Office had saved a man from being hanged. It was supposed to be a quiet, pleasant, sleepy, snowy day. Never had the Dowager been so right  and for so many reasons.  M/M engagement reveal fic, finished FINALLY.
1. An Old Man's Fancy

As it happened, Matthew Crawley's prediction of 'a few thick heads' was not far off the mark. In the servants' hall that next morning, a low level of bleariness permeated breakfast. The elation from the staff, knowing that Mr. Bates was not to be hanged, had not yet worn off in the face of strong drink. The atmosphere _was _muted, and everyone drank their coffee in near silence, shivering at the January chill that fought its way through the cracks of the doors and windowpanes.

"Thomas," said Mr. Carson, taking in the whole of his bedraggled domain with a nod. "I'll need your help at luncheon today."

The former footman did not take to this news with the grace he might've exhibited had the conversation taken place upstairs, in the presence of a member of the family.

"What for? Aren't I meant to be His Lordship's valet, now?"

"In a trial capacity, you _will_ be, yes," the butler said, not bothering to hide his disapproval of that particular situation. "But not yet. And we're having at _least_ Mr. Crawley for lunch today, and possibly his mother as well, if the car can make it, and I want you on hand to guarantee everything's a success."

"The Crawleys are coming for lunch?" Mrs. Hughes interjected. "Since when? This is the first I've heard of it."

"They were a late addition—I've been apologized to for the short notice." He didn't add that he'd gotten a note about the change from Lady Mary, not Her Ladyship as he was used to, but he'd been mulling the fact over ever since.

"I suppose it's just as well," sighed Mrs. Hughes, her mind already having turned to the extra attention that would have to be afforded to the family's midday meal. "And they're hardly the most difficult guests in the world."

Mrs. Patmore would probably be more difficult than either Mr. Matthew or his mother when she learned there were two more mouths to feed.

"Mr. Crawley, back so soon?" remarked Ms. O'Brien, tone laced with her special brand of peevish curiosity. "Did anyone even see him leave last night?"

Thomas leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. The only thing missing from the picture was a cigarette—though he knew perfectly well how to blow smoke without one.

"That's the third time in three days he's popped up here. He hasn't been this keen to hang around the Abbey since before the War, has he? Wonder what that's about…"

"What do you mean, Thomas?" asked Daisy. Anna shot him a look of warning—one that he pointedly ignored.

The upstairs lot always _did _take the servants for granted, even the Crawleys, and Thomas would not soon forget the exchange he had overheard when he had shown the heir apparent and his mother into the hall two nights previous. _"I wish you'd take my advice, and fight for her. But I know you won't." _He wondered if Mrs. Crawley had even thought about his presence when she spoke those words. Of course, he could have little doubt of what they meant—that a certain portentous event was perhaps not so far out of the Dowager Countess' reach as they had believed it was.

Of course, he was already thinking of how to turn it around for his own advantage. He wouldn't be him if he didn't.

"Just that, for him to traipse here in all that snow…well. Seems odd." Had he a cigarette, Thomas would've stubbed it out on the last word. He would've managed to turn the action into something elegant, or at least decently sinister.

He did have standards.

"I'll thank you for keeping your idle gossip to yourself," snapped Mrs. Hughes, putting to an end any further discussion on the matter. Mr. Carson was, quite against his will, torn between avid disapproval and curiosity.

"Of course, Mrs. Hughes," he replied, smooth and sanguine, before adding casually, "I was only going to remark that it seemed funny, with Sir Richard only being sent packing yesterday morning."

Everyone's heads spun in unison back to Mrs. Hughes, as they would for a tennis volley. Before the housekeeper got the chance to scold him for his impertinence, Lord Grantham's dressing bell rang—and they were all thankfully spared (or perhaps pulled away) from one of the many small battles that peppered their lives below stairs. O'Brien's eyes met Thomas's, and wordlessly beckoned him to the back hallway at lunch for further speculation.

Later, when Carson met Mrs. Hughes on a stairwell and had a free moment, he could not help but bring the matter up again. Charles Carson had never made any secret of his interest in one _particular_ running thread of the house, and the implication was difficult to ignore...

"Do you think there's…" He felt like a fool but pressed on, regardless. "Anything more to this luncheon with the Crawleys?"

"Beyond unnecessary work you'll make for yourself, you mean?" He hesitated, and the housekeeper realized with a little jolt where his thoughts tended. "Oh, you don't think—you mustn't take anything Thomas says to heart, Mr. Carson. You know he's only pulling your leg."

"I know, Mrs. Hughes." The old butler could not stop the bubble of hope from swelling in his chest, even when she spoke so sensibly. He thought of last night, when Mr. Matthew had asked Lady Mary for a waltz. His eyes had followed them around the room. Was he being sentimental, optimistic, when he had thought he recognized the look in the young man's eyes? "I know."

She gave him a consoling pat on the arm.

"Best to let it lie."

There was work to be done—there always was. Everyone expected the family to rise later than usual. With the ball the night before there seemed little chance for anything of note to occur beyond a leisurely and commonplace lunch with the heir and his mother. There was nothing unusual about that, Carson reminded himself, nor was it his job to speculate about any unusual happenings in this house. He was not, after all, _Thomas_.

His mind drifted back to the night before as he polished the candelabras only brought out at New Year, soon to be put back in the cupboard again. It seemed treacherous territory for a man whose greatest fear was discovering plating where there ought to be solid silver, but even he would tread dangerous mental roads from time to time.

The sight of them dancing had appealed to his sensibilities, to everything he respected and had worked for and towards for his entire life at Downton. Though young people didn't believe it anymore, there was a justness, a rightness, in the words _noblesse oblige_. Whatever their many faults, whatever the aristocracy touched seemed to turn into something _more_ than what it was. A young and priggish lawyer from Manchester was no different.

In short, when Matthew Crawley danced with Lady Mary, he actually _looked_ like the future Earl of Grantham.

Carson sighed and polished the candlestick again, daring not to dream and failing. The mundane and the disappointing were possible, even at Downton, he supposed, as he reverently placed the silver treasure back in its proper place. Everything in Downton Abbey had its proper place.

He couldn't help it if he believed that Lady Mary's was beside Matthew Crawley.

**Because the world needs more post-Christmas Special reveal fic. No idea how far I'm going to go with this one, only knowing that we will be starting Series 3 (THE READ THROUGH FOR THE FIRST EPISODE IS TODAY) a few months later means that we won't get these glorious moments, so I have to put in my own take. **


	2. Unexpected Vistors

"Rosamund made a mad dash, didn't she?" remarked Robert, idly, over the paper he was reading and did read every morning of every day for as far back as Mary could remember. Of the family, only his first two daughters were seated at the breakfast table with him.

"She took the ten o'clock. She said she missed London and wanted to get back as soon as she could," offered Edith, obviously not certain this was the truth, but not willing to speak directly to the real reason.

"She waited for the _second_ train, of course," her sister pointedly remarked, as she drank from a cup of coffee. "So there wouldn't be any awkward meetings."

Sighing, her father lowered his paper to address them both.

"I hope she wasn't too cut up about this business with Hepworth. Between that and everything else that's happened—" He shot his firstborn an apologetic look. "Well, at least we have a chance to prove Bates is innocent, anyway. And now that Murray's looking into the case and things have quieted down, we might finally get some of the peace we were so sorely lacking at Christmas."

"Or at least a brief respite, I'm sure." She paused for a moment before continuing, "By the way, Papa, Matthew and Isobel are stopping by later, so I took the liberty of inviting them to luncheon. I hope you don't mind."

Her father blinked in surprise, but a second later he was smiling at the prospect of seeing Matthew, as he always did.

"Of course not! But when did this plan come to be?"

"Last night."

"I hope you squared it with Carson and your mother—"

"Of _course_." She had told her mother about the Crawleys coming, just not…the other thing. She wasn't sure exactly why herself. Maybe it was because it had been so long since she'd had a happy secret, one that made her giddy and excited and was _difficult_ to keep. She barely remembered this feeling. Perhaps she'd never felt it before.

Mary wasn't quite ready to part with it yet.

"I'm always glad to have them, of course…but it does seem strange for he and Isobel to come up again, so soon, when it's snowed like this." He stood up to check the weather outside the window. Outside a soft blanket of near blinding whiteness covered as much of the estate as it was possible to see.

She would never be able to look at snow again and not think of the impossible coming true.

"I gather he wanted to talk to you about something."

"Oh?" Robert's voice lilted with curiosity. "Any idea what?"

"Oh, I don't know, perhaps his plans to move back to Manchester?" She rose from the table, elegantly. "I'm going to go write a letter to Sybil."

Mary gave her father an airy kiss on the cheek and glided across the room as serenely as she'd entered it. Neither Edith nor Robert saw her small and secret smile.

* * *

><p>"Ah, Mr. Crawley—we were expecting you, of course. But I was under the impression Mrs. Crawley would be joining us as well. Did the motor not make it…?"<p>

He trailed off, noticing that the young man was very distracted. He was staring up at the ceiling, the walls, the paintings, and the furniture as if it were the first time he'd ever set foot in Downton and he thought it the most wondrous thing he'd laid eyes on in his life. The butler cleared his throat, dragging Matthew out of the apparent reverie that meditating upon a ceiling fixture brought.

"I don't know, but I'd imagine it will, Carson—" His voice was strangely jumpy and energetic. "Only I—I got rather tired of waiting and I decided to walk."

"…In the snow, sir?"

Carson was one of those rare people who had mastered the art of politely casting judgment with the subtlest of inflections. This did not go unnoticed by Matthew.

"In the snow, yes. I erm—I wanted a bit of fresh air, you understand."

No, why a sensible young man would trudge through half a foot of snow for lunch when he could just have easily driven was _not_ something he understood. He watched the normally fastidious Matthew absently brush snow off his coat, still grinning like an idiot.

Mr. Carson's hope of the morning renewed itself.

"Of course, sir."

"Listen, Carson—" Matthew lowered his voice. "I need a word with Lord Grantham, and I was wondering if—"

"Why Matthew, whatever are _you_ doing here?"

Both men turned and snapped to attention at the sight that greeted them: Violet Crawley, the Dowager Countess of Grantham, wearing a dark sable wrap that Carson was removing gently before she even had to ask.

He froze. What had they agreed on, last night?

"_You've no idea how…excited I am to tell everyone."_

"_Are you, dearest? I'm not sure I am. I like having our own special secret."_

"…_I doubt I'll be able to keep this a secret very long, Mary."_

"_Neither can I, truly, only…" He remembered this exchange being punctuated by some—embraces. "They'll all be so unbearably smug. Granny worst of all. Can we at least put off telling her until dinner tomorrow night?"_

"Ah, Cousin Violet—hello. What are you—I mean, how are you?" He fumbled, desperate to think of something natural-sounding to say to her. From the way she was looking at him, Matthew felt sure she thought he was a bit touched in the head. "That is—did you have a pleasant evening last night?"

"Oh, I always enjoy the servants ball. But then, who doesn't enjoy 'letting loose', as they say?" This was said with conviction of one who believes "letting loose" should be a yearly treat, like Christmas or the opening of Ascot. "But you're back again rather soon. Are you expected?"

"I—yes, I am. And mother is, as well," he added, quickly (too quickly.) He had hoped this would deflect suspicions that anything was odd. It had failed spectacularly.

"Is she? I suppose it's to be a family party, then. You'll let someone know we've arrived, Carson?" He nodded his head and exited, presumably to inform Lord or Lady Grantham. "I assume you've come for the same reason I have," she added to Matthew, in an undertone.

"And…what reason is that?" he swallowed, thickly.

Just then, like an angel from on high, Mary appeared at the top of the stairs, and he was spared from any further verbal blunders by virtue of being rendered quite incapable of speech.

For just a second her face lit up in perfect euphoric bliss, and he knew for certain that last night had not been a dream. She was there, she was beautiful and beaming and she was to be his _wife_. Having heard him in the foyer, she had rushed to the staircase, moving with an eagerness that his current mood more than matched. He ached to touch her, to hold her, to prove again and again that she and this were _real_.

Then she rounded the corner, saw who was standing beside him, and stopped dead in her tracks.

"Granny?" Mary was momentarily baffled. "Whatever are _you_ doing here?"

"That's the second time in as many minutes I've been asked that question," Onto her face Violet affixed the expression of the eternally hard done-by. "One would almost think I wasn't wanted."

"You know that isn't what I meant. It's just that you aren't expected, particularly this early. It's unusual for you."

Having recomposed herself, her granddaughter shot a quick cheeky glance in his direction in Matthew's direction. His stomach pleasantly flip-flopped, and he desperately bit back the urge to kiss her. They had agreed he ought to tell her father first—he wanted to do things 'properly'—

"I am sorry to drop in unannounced," The Dowager Countess continued, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. "Only I wanted to get the news first hand, from Rosamund."

"Aunt Rosamund took the ten back to London." She met his eyes, silently saying, _"I suppose we're still in the clear." _"I don't think she could stand to face you."

Her grandmother emitted an irritated scoff in the back of her throat.

"I don't see why not. All I did was speak my mind."

"Don't you always?" A new voice joined the fray, pleasantly amused.

It was living proof that the car had managed to plow its way through the snow surrounding the Abbey—Isobel having bundled up in a sensible coat and taken it.

"Mother—" Matthew smiled, delighted, as she walked through the door, removing her gloves with that brisk and artless efficiency that so defined her. "You made it."

"Of course I did, dear—" She turned to the younger woman, hanging back with her grandmother, and beamed with similar delight. "And Mary, dear!—"

Isobel walked towards her very deliberately, but, eternally aware of her grandmother's powers of perception, Mary tactfully sidestepped her.

"Matthew, why don't you and Granny go into the library, I think you'll find Papa there, and you can see about when luncheon will be—" Thankfully, he took her hint without question. "I'll see to Isobel getting her coat taken by Carson."

"Of course—" Matthew raised his arm in a feat of improvised gallantry, and one she could hardly refuse. "Cousin Violet?"

Reluctantly taking his arm, the Dowager gave Mary one more shrewd look before allowing him to lead her down one of the long galleries.

"…I take it she wasn't invited?" Isobel dryly remarked, watching the retreating backs of her son and the Dowager as they exited the scene.

"Granny likes to capitalize on the element of surprise. Forgive me for cutting you off, Isobel—" There was so much that she wanted to say, and yet at this moment she could say nothing. It did not seem that her dumbness struck Isobel as anything but natural, for she merely smiled encouragingly. "He has…told you, then?"

"Oh, my dear, sweet girl—" The dam burst at last, and the older woman embraced her with what she instantly recognized as a warm and sincere delight. Unexpected relief flooded her, and she returned it, holding on the other woman as if her life depended on it. "I'm so happy for you."

She had not known how much Isobel's approval mattered to her until she had it.

"So am I." Mrs. Crawley's wool coat muffled her voice, and Mary was glad of it, for she knew that it was unsteady. There didn't seem any point in not crying a bit, she rationalized, however soppy and ridiculous it made her feel. Isobel's coat was wet, anyway. "I've never been this happy in all my life. And I'll try so…so hard to make him happy."

"I don't think you need to try, Mary."

**Thank you for all the alerts and reviews. I hope you enjoyed! Feedback is always appreciated. **


	3. Bombs Dropped

"Did it strike you as conspiratorial, that little exchange between your mother and Mary?"

They were padding down what felt to Matthew like it must be the longest hallway in the British Empire. It seemed as though, at long last, The Dowager Countess of Grantham viewed him as one of her own and not just the bigger disaster the Titanic sinking had caused. He vividly remembered the cold aloofness with which she had first treated him, as if he were an odd specimen on display at the local chapter of the Royal Zoological Society.

He almost preferred it to this.

"She was just seeing to the coats, Cousin Violet," was the lamely unoriginal speculation he offered, as they both walked into the library. Robert stood up when he saw his mother, abandoning the papers he'd been looking over at his desk.

"Ah, Matthew—and Mama. Carson told me you were here."

"I came to confirm that _all_ the unsuitable marriage prospects are out the door," The Dowager explained, dryly.

"I suspect you would have seen to getting rid of Hepworth, if Rosamund hadn't."

Robert and his heir shared a helpless look of understanding.

"Thank the Lord for small mercies," she replied, ignoring their silent exchange. "It seems that she's slinked off back to London, as well. Why she would feel the need to leave before discussing it with me is quite beyond me."

"I think that was her chief motivation for leaving, Mama. Now, Matthew—" He jumped at his name and the sudden shift of focus onto him. "What was it you wanted to discuss? Mary seemed to think it had something to do with your plans to go back to Manchester."

He tried to ignore the carefully controlled skepticism in Cousin Violet's sharp eyes.

"Ah—yes, it is about my plans…" Matthew's mouth twitched of its own accord at the thought. His 'plans to return to Manchester' _indeed_—as if he could ever think of leaving her, now that he had her. "Of a sort, anyway—I was wondering if we could discuss it in private?"

Robert frowned.

"Of course—but can it wait? Luncheon's almost ready and I wanted to write a quick note to Murray before we go in."

His mouth hung open for a long moment and he formulated words of insistence in his head, all the while fearing that the septuagenarian standing two feet to his left knew exactly what it was he wanted to discuss, and would be spreading the news far and wide forthwith. Her inevitable smug and knowing expression taunted Matthew in his mind's eye.

"Of course," he sighed, thinking of Mary's request, and how many times he had kissed her after she'd made it. "Of course it can wait."

A quarter of an hour later the entire party walked into the dining room for what most of them assumed would be the equivalent of a nonchalant luncheon, in their set. Mary sat diagonally across from him (too far away—but it was a beautiful view of her.) He murmured a 'hello,' to Edith, who yawned and then apologized for it.

"Well, this is nice," Cora commented, brightly. "A cozy family luncheon."

"Though one wonders at its purpose, the day after a ball."

"Really, granny, must you seek an ulterior motive in everything?" Mary asked, rolling her eyes. Matthew marveled at how blithely she could deflect, feeling a little justified in his rather dim view of her feelings for him.

Lady Grantham was in fairly good spirits today, as Matthew supposed they all were, since Bates' sentence had been changed to life in prison. The meal's conversation was pleasant enough, but it also meandered, and he found that excitement and nervousness were putting a strain on his patience for multiple course meals.

Mary, as outwardly impassive as ever, raised an eyebrow at him across the table as he fidgeted, nervously fiddling with a salad fork. When he noticed her staring at him, he started and nearly dropped it into the soup course. It took all her self-control not to ask him outright, at the table, how he came to be so endearing.

Oh, how _dear_ Matthew was to her.

"Mary—" her father stirred her from her thoughts. "I saw you received something in the post from New York this morning—did you," he hesitated for a moment, sensing the awkwardness that might arise from the Crawleys' presence. "Hear back about a date for your trip?"

"Yes," she said, clearly ignoring Robert's attempt at delicacy. "Grandmama wants me to cross at the end of January."

"Mary is going to visit my mother in New York," Cora explained to Isobel, who, knowing what she did, was obviously quite confused. "We're not sure for how long—"

"I don't see what the point of beating about the bush is, we're all family here," Violet interrupted. "Now that Mary has broken with Carlisle, she wants to got to America to minimize the damage. There's no shame in it."

"Granny—honestly," Edith gently admonished their grandmother, and Mary found herself in the unique position of seeing her middle sister come to her defense.

"What would you like to see in America, when you go?"

He didn't know what compelled him to say it, except that it had been such a long time since he had teased her, and the success of his proposal meant that he was feeling rather daring. She turned to him, smiling politely, blasé response at the ready.

"Oh, I don't know—the Statue of Liberty? Whatever the usual things one looks at in New York. I don't expect grandmamma has much sightseeing in mind…more likely," she peaked out of one eye cheekily. "She wants to introduce me to some 'hapless millionaire.'"

Inwardly he grinned.

"So there's more attraction in the _company_ than the place?"

"I wouldn't say _that_—" Her eyes lowered, innocently. "At least not about America, anyway."

"Your mother tells me it's very likely you'll meet the Vanderbilts when you go." Her grandmother cut in. "You must try to get it out of them, if it's true about Consuelo and that young man who flies the aeroplanes."

"I'm surprised you care about the American branch of the family," She took another bite of food, though she couldn't taste anything—not when she was this close to the heart of it. "And I'm afraid I really can't promise any brushes with anyone, even the Duchess of Marlborough's more rustic relations."

"And why, pray, is that?"

Another bite, before—

"Because I'm not going to America."

"When did you make this decision?" Robert asked, his bewilderment mirrored on his wife's face.

"Obviously no one's forcing you to go, darling—" Her mother reassured, hastily. "But you must admit this is rather sudden."

"I'm sorry, Mama—" She laid the fork down delicately. "But I've changed my mind. I've already written to grandmamma to tell her."

"Tell her _what,_ precisely?" Violet interrupted, and rare thought it was, it seemed from their expressions that Robert Crawley's wife and mother were wondering the same thing. "Only last night we were discussing it—not more than twelve hours ago. Something has, in those twelve hours, presumably—changed?"

Mary colored at the full attention of her family. It was funny, for she was so _used_ to being the center of attention when she had done something disagreeable or headstrong; she almost didn't know how to go about telling them she'd done something they wanted her to. That unfamiliar shyness overtook her again, made her feel clumsy and silly and altogether not herself.

The sight of Matthew in the corner of her eye, so gentle and supportive, fortified Mary.

"Something _has _changed and I've—" Her calm veneer began to crack and Mary's speech faltered a little. It seemed silly to hold out now, when her grandmother was so intent on dragging the truth out of her by force—and yet, now that the moment had come, she was not quite sure what to say. "And I've decided to stay in England. I was…I was asked to, actually."

"By _whom_?"

"By me."

Matthew had blurted it out without even thinking, because he was so bloody excited that he couldn't keep it _in _anymore, except now everyone in the room were _staring _at him and he couldn't think of what to say next and Mary looked like she was going to burst out into peels of laughter any second, which was far too rare an expression and suited her quite well—

"How presumptuous of you," Her grandmother remarked. Across the table his fiancée's eyes flashed in delight at how undone he was. The thought of waking up to her every day for the rest of his blasted life undid him even further.

"If you'll let me explain what happened I—it will make sense—"

"I suppose he thought it'd be easier for me to become his wife if we were living in the same country, granny," Mary interrupted, putting him out of his misery. "You can hardly blame Matthew for _that._"

The bomb had been dropped.

"My God." Her father's knife and fork clattered uselessly to the plate in front of him. "Mary—"

Robert turned to her, searching for affirmation on her face, and found that the smooth and cool Mary of the morning had all but disappeared. In her place was a woman he had never seen: beaming, bright and merry, so happy in her certainty, looking across the table with a girlish worshipfulness he once hadn't thought her capable of. "Matthew—"

He followed that gaze, to see him—to see _his_ boy, the young man who had become his own in the past eight years, the youth that would, one day, succeed him and become the Eighth Earl of Grantham. Matthew was standing up, clumsily, bashfully, beaming with the same glowing energy that Mary had.

"Matthew—is this true?"

"I—I wanted to tell you in private—" The young man nearly knocked over his glass rising to his feet. "But it seems I lost my moment before we all came in to eat. I know I should've asked you first—"

"I apologize for not letting you follow form, darling," Mary smiled up at him. "Everyone was just so curious about my trip. I could hardly lie outright."

He gave her a tender smile in return, before turning back to her father. The whole party, from Violet to Thomas, was silently trying to gauge Robert's reaction to the news. He was obviously too stunned to even say anything, at first, instead just looking from one to the other in amazement.

"…I hope I have your approval, even if I didn't ask for your permission."

The Earl of Grantham's blank shock transformed into a beaming smile. Matthew—so unassuming, so earnest—only he would even doubt it for a second.

"My dear boy," He stood himself, grasping the outstretched hand and nearly shaking it off. "Nothing could make me happier."

**I hope you enjoyed. Next time, the full contingency will weigh in on this most momentous of occasions. **


	4. A Complete Joke

Naturally, the one American in the room was the person least capable of reigning in her emotions.

"Oh, my _darlings_!" Matthew smiled as he turned to Cora Crawley, whose expression suggested that it was only the table between them that was preventing her from knocking him over in joy in a fit of New World joy. "But when did this happen?"

"Last night—after the ball." He struggled to explain, in just a few words, what had been the culmination of eight years of feelings, hopes and nearly dashed dreams. "I just—I asked Mary and she…she said yes."

"Isobel—did _you_ know about this?" Maternal commiseration was obviously at the heart of her very sincere interest.

"When he came downstairs this morning looking as though he were on Cloud Nine I guessed the reason fairly quickly," his mother laughed, patting Matthew's shoulder affectionately.

"I'm amazed you were able to keep it to yourself for as long as you did, Mary," Edith wondered aloud, as everyone rose from the table to congratulate them, formality nearly forgotten. Matthew found himself shaking hands—Robert couldn't seem to get enough of the gesture, having come back to repeat it a second time (before Edith cut in) and a third (after he gave Mary—his eldest child, but she seemed so much younger than she'd ever been—a kiss on the cheek.)

Mary then noticed one among their number who had _not _risen.

"You're being awfully quiet, Granny. I can't believe _you_ have nothing to say."

Her grandmother did not wear the nearly cloying expressions that all her other relations had taken up. Instead, she remained seated, stately, in her place of honor next to where the current Earl would've been sitting if he wasn't so busy shaking Matthew's hand and repeating "by George!", "My dear chap!" and other inane exclamations of the middle-aged toff. She was staring very hard at her eldest and most difficult grandchild—who, so like her grandmother, began to stare rather churlishly back.

"I can't help noticing, Mary," she said, finally. "That you neglected to invite _me_ to this soiree. If I hadn't stumbled upon it by complete chance, I'd be the only member of the family not in the know."

"Really, mama, of all the things to remark on at a time like this—"

"Well, Granny," she said, bypassing her father's indigence, glib smile on her lips. "Perhaps I thought in the absence of Aunt Rosamund you would lavish _me_ with all of your "I-told-you-sos."

"Really, my dear—I'm sure you'd like to think that everyone is surprised, but as if anyone could be," she lowered her tone, conspiratorily. "When you both spend more time gazing wistfully at each other than characters out of an Ann Radcliffe novel."

"_Granny_!" Already she could see how "granny-being-granny" was going to bring a bit of Downton reality to the engagement that had seemed, only twelve hours ago, to be the stuff of dreams or fairytales. One furtive glance in his direction showed that Matthew was also embarrassed—and, true to form, not doing a very good job of hiding it.

"I wonder why you did nothing to intervene, if you were so certain of how things stood," remarked Isobel, pointedly.

"Mother—" her son warned, before—

"But I did. Or hasn't Matthew told you?"

Matthew practically winced at the affronted expression his mother took up on his behalf.

"Oh—you did, did you? I won't presume to ask you the circumstances that surrounded this meeting—"

"Well, that's good, as I don't imagine I'd tell you much about it if you did. It's between Matthew and I."

Mary could already feel the headache that would be her boon companion in the coming months seeping into her skull. She had seen this coming, the great battle of who had brought about this most fortuitous of matches—everyone ignoring her role in the affair, naturally, though if she were truly honest with herself, she couldn't blame them. She could hardly believe it herself.

Feeling the gaze of someone, a warm and familiar feeling, she turned around in her seat to see her oldest ally standing above her, nearly silent, save the ruffling of a starched and pressed suit. He was composed, straight-backed and professional as always. She knew what people thought—that a good butler was implacable, almost implacable as people believed the eldest daughter of an earl should be.

What people thought was true, she supposed—from a certain point of view.

"I know _you_ won't be smug, Carson, though I'm certain you have every right to be," she told him, quietly.

"The only thing I will do, milady, is presume on his Lordship's desires," he smiled, with warm, fatherly affection. "And go down to the cellars to fetch some champagne."

"Is Mrs. Hughes likely to approve of that?" They shared a look of understanding.

"If she didn't, would it matter much to you, milady?"

Her mouth twitched at the stately, serious tenor of the question—a remark that came from a man who understood, perhaps better than anyone, the part of her that had never grown out of being a headstrong girl.

"Well, perhaps she'll forgive a newly _affianced_ woman her whimsy, anyway."

"Do you remember where I put the '05 _Delamotte_, Mrs. Hughes?"

Mr. Carson peaked his head into the housekeeper's comfortable sitting room, where she had sat down for a brief early afternoon respite. Bent over the desk, she was writing herself a note. Of course, in her line of work, one tended to be one's own greatest correspondent.

"On the third rack, where you put all of the wine you've only half a dozen bottles of left, I'd imagine," she looked up from the page. "Though why you're messing about with champagne at this time of day when you've plenty _else_ to be getting on with is beyond me."

Mr. Carson tried and failed to smile mysteriously.

"I don't think you'd believe me if I told you," he replied, ducking out of the doorway and hurrying away.

Frowning, she returned to her work for a few seconds, before that ominous, prescient ability she had honed as a housekeeper overtook her and she stood up to follow him.

Her senses lead her to the kitchen, where Mrs. Patmore was loading up the second course, some non-descript looking cod onto a platter for the family. Everything here seemed well and normal—Daisy was sprinkling some dill on the fish and being harassed for doing it incorrectly, as though failure in this particular task was really possible.

Still, she couldn't shake this feeling.

"Did Mr. Carson just come through here?" she asked the cook.

"Yes, just a minute ago," Mrs. Patmore replied, distractedly. "He was in a real hurry, rattling on about the 'wines of vindication,' whatever that means."

"I have a feeling I know _exactly _what it means."

Just then, Thomas entered the room, ostensibly to take up the main course but looking very chuffed about something—never a good sign.

"Anyone seen Ms. O'Brien around?"

"I'd imagine she's in a dark stairwell, waiting for you," snapped the housekeeper, to which Thomas only smiled serenely, nodded, and took the tray from a bewildered Daisy's outstretched hands.

_Oh, Dear _Lord_. _

"On the whole, of course, I am exceedingly pleased." The room collectively sighed, believing themselves to have allowed Violet the final word, at last. "But then—one could hardly expect me not to be, under the circumstances."

Having allowed her grandmother to bicker with Isobel, refraining from comment, had been difficult enough—but understanding the implication as only she and Matthew could, Mary could hardly keep silent.

"Are you to add fortune-teller and matchmaker to your numerous titles, granny?" she inquired, blithely. Violet didn't bat an eyelash at her granddaughter's sarcasm. "I don't think desiring a marriage because of its convenience means you can claim credit for it coming off eight years later."

"I think my prescience is to be admired rather than scoffed at, given the lapse in time and—I dare say the _several_ lapses in judgment that have occurred in the intervening years."

"Granny believes she was the first person on earth to _suggest _we might marry, and that she ought to be given some conciliatory prize," Mary said, bluntly. "Though I'm not sure what I can offer, beyond the promise that we won't turn Downton into a public house or a dance hall when it's ours."

He smothered a laugh at her mother's horrified expression.

"That may be a—" There was a smidgen of a pause for consideration of word choice. "A _tad_ ungenerous to Cousin Violet, darling."

Hearing the word 'darling' uttered in reference to herself caught Mary off guard, and Violet, seized upon her momentary inability to speak.

"I was only pointing out—and Matthew, knowing you as well as he does now, can hardly deny it—that if you weren't so opposed to him on principle when you first met you both might've been spared a great deal of grief."

"The whole question of that—is quite immaterial," Mary sputtered, showing rare discomfiture in public. Of course a member of a family would bring _that _up, how stupid and blind and _cruel _she had been. At least she had not been alone in her stubbornness. "When Matthew was just as against the idea of us marrying as I was, at the start. Weren't you, darling?"

There was a long, awkward pause.

"…_Weren't_ you?"

"Well—…"

A teasing smile played on his lips, but she could see the glint of honest-to-goodness consideration in Matthew's eyes at the question she had believed was quite rhetorical. It was almost too much for her.

"Matthew Crawley! What was the _first thing_ I ever heard you say?" His mother tried and failed to hide a smile at the memory.

"Mary—" her fiancée began, quite helplessly, before she cut him off again.

"You said—" Her tone vacillated between amusement and utter indigence. "You said that you intended to choose your own wife."

_Yes, and for not a second in the eight years we've known each other have you ever let me forget it._

"That you anticipated having one of Lord Grantham's daughters 'pushed at you,' and that you were not, in fact, amendable to the idea. From your tone, I believe you found it quite distasteful.'"

He shot her amused father an apologetic look. Robert, to his credit, did not look very surprised by the admission.

"Yes, that may all be true, Mary, but you have to understand…"

"Do I?" It was obvious that she wasn't truly upset, that she was only ribbing him, for she was doing nothing to conceal her smile. They had fallen into their old intimate familiarity so easily—as they were always meant to. "Help me to, because I simply can't."

The entire table was watching them in bemused silence, but even under their intense scrutiny, all he could think about was Mary. He struggled to speak.

"What I said was…well…" Under the table, long strong fingers found her hand and held it, ran one finger boldly over her knuckles. Her face colored, her mouth parted in surprise—then curved upward, slowly, uncertainly. "…I said it before I saw you."

_Before I'd seen you, and spoken to you, and laughed with you, and tried to forget you again and again…_

_That was before I _knew_ you. _

Even though he didn't say it, he knew she understood.

Mary squeezed his hand back.

**Well, that was a hard one. Forgive me for the lateness of the update, but the original idea in this chapter got expanded quite a bit in the editing process, and so trying to fit it into the whole story has been a bit of a trial. Have been going through a rough patch the last couple weeks (months…year…) so I would like to thank you all for your interest and support. Feedback is always deeply appreciated!**

**Posting before I go to bed—trip to Los Angeles tomorrow, so forgive me if it seems less polished than usual. Just trying to get it out before four days away. **


	5. Popping In Invited

"You aren't pleased with me."

The luncheon had all but devolved into informality, their 'news' having trumped ceremony on this one occasion. Seeing Matthew affectionately overwhelmed by her parents, Mary surreptitiously joined her grandmother in the opposite corner of the room. Violet Crawley chose to neither confirm nor deny the assertion about her present state of mind.

She rolled her eyes.

"I trust I've done enough good to return to your favor _eventually_."

"I recall a conversation we had some time ago," her grandmother finally spoke, and Mary steeled herself. "In which you expressed disbelief that Matthew would ever propose to you again, even if he was free to."

"Yes, granny—I remember."

"You assured me that it was all over between you sometime later, do you recall _that_ conversation?"

"Vividly." Amused weariness crept into Mary's voice. "I expect now you'll never let me forget it."

"And how long did it take him to propose, once you were free? A day?"

"A little more than— " It was then that Mary noticed him, and the quip she had fashioned in her head dangled uselessly out of her lips, half-thought of. Matthew had caught her eye across the room. He had been watching her over her mother's shoulder for some time, had relished in his ability to observe an unknowing Mary—to see how she handled her indomitable grandmother with wit, humor and a surprising amount of patience.

She smiled at him.

"My dear girl," her grandmother cut into the lovers' exchange, and followed her granddaughter's eye line to its inevitable resting place knowingly. "_That_ was how I knew."

_Oh, granny. _It was all Mary could think to keep herself from blushing like some soppy deb, freshly out. She always _was_ right, as much as they all tried to deny her her due. At least, she always seemed to be about the things that really mattered.

"The truth is, granny," She dragged her eyes away from him at last. "I was going to call on you in the village this afternoon and tell you myself, in person—just the _two_ of us."

"Really, Mary, there's no need for artifice between us. You sound like your mother."

"I thought you might try to corner Matthew." The rest of the thought hung in the air, unspoken: _"I'm still afraid you might."_

From her reaction, one might've thought Violet Crawley was being accused of murdering Vera Bates and framing her husband for it.

"Corner him?" Harmless bewilderment had never been infused into three syllables so potently. "Am I a barn cat? Is your fiancée some variety of garden vole?"

"You can hardly feign disinterest. I know you told him to throw Lavinia over for me." Mary lowered her voice. "Why he didn't is no one's business but his and I don't think you ought to—"

"—Forgive me for interrupting, but I seem to have only just escaped."

Mary started at the sudden appearance at her shoulder of her (virtually) unruffled, unabashedly happy fiancée. This sanguineness, she expected, would not last long in the presence of her grandmother.

"Were you afraid there wouldn't be another opportunity?" Violet addressed him, wryly.

"They're discussing fabric for the wedding dress." Looking apologetic, he continued, "Of course I'm very invested in the outcome, I just…didn't have much to contribute." He turned his attention fully to the Dowager Countess, a searching, hopeful sort of expression on his face. "And of course I wanted to speak to you, Cousin Violet."

"Do you? Your fiancée seems intent on protecting you from me."

"_Granny_…"

Five years earlier he might've been intimidated, but time spent crossing swords with the more contentious members of the Grantham clan had not been wasted on him.

"She probably thought I needed it because you're the one person whose good opinion is harder to attain than hers."

Taken aback (and, judging by her expression, impressed) she did not say anything for a moment, allowing an opening for Isobel to hurry over and squeeze herself into the conversation.

"Mary—Mary, dear, please come over here, you must settle a bet between your mother and I—"

Matthew watched his mother drag Mary to the other side of the room, bemused. The older woman eyed the spectacle with the air of someone who has a mild distaste for anything one could describe as even remotely "exuberant."

"…Cousin Isobel won't be joining Mary and I on that exalted list, I take it?"

"It may not seem it, but getting in her good books isn't all that difficult."

She smiled, thinly. It had never been a comfortable relationship, even with this newfound equanimity between them, and Matthew struggled to think of how to tell her what he wanted to, how to…thank her.

"It sounds stupid of me to say aloud, but all the same…" he started, finally, rocking on the balls of his feet. "I do hope you're _pleased_."

"It is, in my opinion, the most auspicious way for one's family to begin a new decade." There was not trace of artifice in her, a miracle in and of itself, and yet he still felt the need to press onward. He was all stops and starts.

"I know you think I ignored the advice you gave me—"

"I surmise that you did not."

"You were right. I wasn't prepared to see it, but…I've thought a lot about what you said, then, about marriage being a…long business."

"I hope I haven't scared you off it." He had the good sense not to rise to her bait.

"You haven't." Marriage—how he could have ever seen a future without it, without _her_, was almost beyond him. "It seems a rather exciting prospect, if truth be told."

"You'll be leaving your current employment in Ripon when you marry, naturally."

He blinked.

"I hadn't…planned on leaving the firm, no."

He would have pointed out that his employment was a necessity to provide for Mary, but considering the distinguished personage he was having this conversation with, Matthew guessed the lesson might be somewhat lost in the material facts of the matter.

"I wonder that it hasn't occurred to you," she said, not at all abashed. "Considering your duty to both Downton and Mary."

"I'm not sure I understand—"

"To produce an heir."

Words failed him.

"Take it from my experience," she said over the silence, matter-of-factly. "Everyone will expect it to be done quickly, and there's always a chance that Mary will have a girl first. It would be prudent to make it your _fulltime _occupation. It's your responsibility after all, not the sort of thing one can work at only on the, ahem, 'weekends.'"

"Well—"

"I expect you to both work at fulfilling your duty." She waved one hand imperiously. Matthew was glad for the interruption, because he hadn't the slightest notion of what he was going to say after 'well.' He only knew he _ought_ to say something, if for no other reason than to preserve his pride. "You understand me?"

"Of course I do…"

"And I trust you will want to marry as quickly as possible, considering your—_duty?_"

He felt his ears burning.

"…Among other reasons, yes."

Robert recognized the effect whatever she was saying was having on Matthew from clear across the room. Taking pity on Matthew, he walked over to join them and hinted that Isobel was planning on heading back to town, to check in at the hospital. He was about to call the car for her, he said. Did she need anything of the sort done for her? Were they to send for her evening clothes?

"I suppose that is your gallant way of getting rid of me?"

He breathed out, heavily—but it had done the trick, and shifted the attention away from _him, _for which Matthew was eternally grateful. He reminded himself to thank his future father-in-law, as he watched Robert lead Cousin Violet away, remembering his own feeble attempts in the same quarter an hour before.

"I'm sorry I left you alone with her—" A voice lilted in his ear, teasing him. It tickled the soft hairs on the back of his neck, causing a shiver that went right through him, down to the tip of his spine, past it, to his toes. Mary…it had always, only been _Mary._ "You look as though granny has put you through the ringer."

Some rather lurid imagery darted in front of his mind's eye. He let it linger there, against his better judgment, for a hair's breadth too long.

"We were discussing duty."

"Oh?" Playfully, she tugged at his elbow, forcing him to turn around so she could see his face. "In what context? To your country, to me, to Downton…or to her?"

"To all of them, I imagine," Matthew blurted out, and the mixture of horror and amusement in his fiancée's eyes was telling of her remarkable abilities of comprehension.

"Oh dear Lord…she didn't—?" Now their faces were a matching shade of red, though in Mary's case, in edition to being embarrassed she looked as though she might burst out laughing at any moment. "I'm sorry, Matthew…this is why I wanted to hold off telling her."

"It's fine. I've…grown used to her candidness." Privately he thought that Cousin Violet had planted the idea in his head as a sort of decadent fantasy, meant to stamp out the staid middle-class values his mother had relentlessly hammered into him. The image of he and Mary locked away in his room in the name of Downton's 'honor' burned in his mind like the cover of a cheap penny dreadful.

"Have you _really_, darling?"

"…More used to, anyway."

**Thank you to everyone who continues to read and enjoy this story. I know it's been a long wait…been going through a rough patch, so the continued support and encouragement is appreciated more than you know. **


	6. A Worthy Endeavor

"Of course, there's also the announcement to consider."

Mary felt a prick of something unpleasant, and on what had started out a perfect day, it was like the weight of a needle being slowly eased into her balloon of happiness.

Her mother and father exchanged _looks_.

"There are a number of things to consider about the announcement…" Matthew started, awkwardly, and knowing precious little about engagement announcements, there was little he could do but look around at everyone and _hope they understood his meaning. _His mother clearly wanted to say something—of course, she always did, didn't she—but one pointed look told Isobel to let it alone.

"Well, it's still very early yet, anyway," Cora added, helpfully, and her future son-in-law smiled with apologetic gratitude across the table. "I expect you won't want to marry until April at the earliest, so there's plenty of time to worry about all that…"

"Considering how long they've waited," Violet interjected, drolly. "I expect they would get married tomorrow, if propriety allowed it."

"Really, mama!"

Mary did not think she had ever seen her grandmother look less apologetic or her father more embarrassed in public—but she supposed it did the trick, because no one felt much like talking about wedding announcements, invitations or flowers after that. She made a mental note to call on granny later and thank her—though she

"I think we ought to put off announcing it for as long as we possibly can," Mary told him, as the conversation had returned to commonplace generality.

"We've heard nothing from Carlisle's newspapers yet—"

"That isn't to say we won't hear eventually—I doubt announcing our engagement two days after he's left will improve our chances."

His hand was on top of hers, and Mary wondered how it must have appeared to an outsider. As though they were discussing something of a far more sentimental nature, most likely…and when he ran his thumb over her bare knuckle, so gently, she wished they were.

"We'll have to face it though, won't we? And isn't it better—sooner rather than later, don't you think—?"

"Oh, darling, I know _that_…" Her voice caught, and Mary felt the familiar sting of annoyance at herself for her weakness. "It isn't that, it's…" She was looking past him, down the table where the rest of their family were. Isobel and Cora, who were so often naturally at odds, were particularly animated, knee-deep in what appeared to be a rather good-natured debate.

Matthew understood without her saying it.

"You're…worried about what _mother_ will think?"

Mary's hands twisted in her lap.

"Well, it's not the sort of thing most women would enjoy reading about their daughter-in-law in the newspaper, is it? I mean, I could hardly blame her for…" she trailed off helplessly.

"Mary, she'll understand."

Matthew could hardly think how to reassure his fiancée, only knowing that he must start somewhere.

"I know, I know she will, eventually—but all the same—I had hoped to start again with her."

"Are you afraid she doesn't like you?"

He nearly laughed, before he saw how in deadly earnest she was. Pride, haughtiness, conceit: it was amazing, he thought, the things people believed her guilty of. Seeing the future countess worried about what Isobel Crawley thought—he marveled at how the world so misjudged her.

"Darling—she was the one who told me I ought to propose to you again."

She drew back in surprise.

"Did she? I thought only granny was guilty of such a breech in…decorum."

"Well, they were in agreement on this point—it must be a sign from the Heavens."

"It _is _rather shocking." A pause, a nervous twitch—and then, curiosity was at war with vanity in her. "What did Isobel say, precisely?"

"It was that day—that you met us at the church." To put her father's ashes in her grave still hurt a little to say, to think. "She told me afterwards that you were still in love with me, that it was 'plain as the nose on my face,' actually."

"That does sound like your mother," was her dry reply. "I assume you didn't agree?"

"I wasn't willing to see the truth…and even if it wasn't true, I didn't think I deserved it."

They lapsed into a momentary silence, their family all around them. Mary simply didn't know what to say. Carson came by, then, to offer him another drink, which he politely declined.

"If Carlisle was going to publish, you'd think he'd have done it by now," Matthew finally said, as the butler trotted off to push some more champagne on Edith.

"I don't know…" She chose her words very carefully. "Perhaps he's…waiting to see what I do next."

"You don't think he believed you?"

"Well, I'm not going to America, am I?"

"I'm going up to London in a few days with your father," he said, face suddenly screwed up in determination. "Perhaps I'll pay Carlisle a visit, see what he plans to do."

She raised one perfect eyebrow.

"What do you intend, exactly? A repeat performance of your prize fight in library?"

He had the good sense to look abashed.

"You're right of course—" He sounded distant, his mind far away. "All it would do is satisfy my anger at him for threatening you, it wouldn't accomplish anything…"

Matthew was pensive. She could tell by the way that he'd clenched his fist under the table.

"Darling…you aren't still thinking about what Richard…said, are you? That night?"

She took his silence as a confirmation.

"I'm sure Lavinia never said that."

"Are you?" he laughed, humorlessly. "I'm not certain. She—" he hesitated, seeing that in those soft brown eyes there was only concern and genuine interest, before continuing. "She told me she suspected there was something between us—for a long time. Since before I was injured, even."

Agitated, he ran a hand through his hair.

"Well, she wasn't a fool." Her voice was free of emotion. "I didn't try very hard to keep it from anyone. Even Richard said—" She stopped herself.

"What did he say?"

"It will only make you angry."

"…Mary."

Not surprisingly, her hands were twisting in her lap again.

"It was when you were injured. He was the one who brought Lavinia back to the house." He started in surprise. "He and mama did. They both thought that I was too—that there was something not right about it. I ought not to have preferred pushing you around in a wheelchair. I suppose that's fair, really, come to think of it."

"Mary…"

"But then Lavinia came back, and it really didn't matter."

She looked down, and despite her lightness, he could tell it _did_ matter to her.

"I should never have become reengaged to her. It wasn't fair to any of us. Least of all her."

"I shan't argue with you on that score."

Feeling suddenly very restless, he stood up and walked over to the window, staring out over the vast, snowy lawn. From where Matthew stood he could see where he had knelt down last night…he could practically make out their footprints in the snow, could see the pattern of his unsteady footsteps as he had spun her around, three, four…five times.

He wanted to capture that moment, bottle it somehow, before the storm completely wiped away the proof that it had happened.

"I think it's very difficult sometimes to not give the people who love us what they want, regardless of how _we _feel on the matter."

"Are you making excuses for me, Mary?"

He heard the clicking of heels behind him, that light and elegant noise that he had just begun to notice, and expected to know better than almost any sound in the world.

"Am I? I must be in love."

"It's more than I deserve."

Looking out the window, he could not see her gentle eye roll, but he could hear the clucking of her tongue.

"I don't think much of loving people because they deserve it." Gently, she clasped his hand, as he had done a few minutes before. Immediately the tension lessened. "I prefer my life not mirror some moralizing 18th century novel."

"I _will_ strive to be worthy of you, Mary." The pressure on her hand increased, warm and comforting. "Every day."

"Well," she squeezed back. "If you _insist…_"

* * *

><p>"Well, <em>he <em>didn't waste any time, did he?"

They were sitting in her study, having the habitual before bed cuppa. She glanced at him over the rim, almost laughing at how self-satisfied he looked.

"I always knew it would turn out this way."

"You _hoped _it would, you mean." She could have sworn she nearly saw the intractably dignified man roll his eyes. "Well, I am happy for them, anyway."

Satisfaction turned to astonishment on Mr. Carson's face as he watched her turn her attention back to the saucer.

"Are you?"

"I'd have to be a blind fool to not see that he adores her, Mr. Carson…" she sighed, heavily. "And I'm not one yet."

"Not so long ago you'd have said she didn't deserve him…"

"Well," she put her cup down. "My mother, God rest her, had a saying for most things. She used to say that no matter how hard you try…"

She gave a short little pause, eyes twinkling in amusement at his solemnity.

"You can't fight fate."

**The little fic that almost never got finished! I'm sorry to everyone about this one lying fallow for so long, but I hope finishing it before the series 3 premiere means it hasn't completely lost relevance. Thanks for the help, Zee, even if you claim it was minor—I really appreciate it.**


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